


Under the Floodlights

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Baseball, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-09 02:21:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11094879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: Expected victories are no less sweet.





	Under the Floodlights

**Author's Note:**

> happy 6/5 yo

Midorima’s first official start is the first night game of the season. If they were in the throes of summer it would start at twilight, but right now the sun’s already gone and the floodlights are up as they start to stretch. There’s a nip in the air; Aomine starts throwing with his hoodie on (he doesn’t like to be uncomfortable, okay) and he and Midorima are at a pretty decent distance before he takes it off, too far to yell something across at Midorima about watching him take off his clothes (but he thinks it, and he’s pretty sure Midorima’s thinking on the same wavelength, so Aomine’s just going to have to live with it.

It’s even easier when he thinks about how they’re together, officially, in every capacity; it’s been like this for months but even so something warm unfurls inside of him like the first sip of hot chocolate made with whole milk. And it’s so fucking good to be out here on the outfield grass with Midorima, in matching uniforms once again. For the first time—ever, actually, they’re starting out a season well together. Aomine can’t keep the smile off his face, even when it’s time for Midorima to start pitching properly, with an actual catcher. Aomine passes him on the way to the dugout, bumps his shoulder and pats his ass (god, does it feel good, still soft from the offseason; Aomine’s going to let himself enjoy that as much as he can) before Midorima swats him away.

“Be serious.”

“I’m always serious, Babe.”

Midorima huffs and flushes, not spectacularly but more than Aomine was hoping for.

“Don’t you have captain things to do?”

“As a captain, my pitching staff is important,” says Aomine, but he lets Midorima go with one final smile.

Midorima’s smiling back, though, the small lift at the corners of his mouth giving him away before he turns and stares in. Aomine watches his first pitch, the motions of his windup and the high arc of the ball (he always starts with a change, another of the thousands of micro-routines he always sticks to and that Aomine’s grown to adore). And, well, that ass in those uniform pants, the tops of his pockets stretched across, emphasizing its sweet roundness—Aomine’s always so gone on him, but damn.

Aomine’s generally pretty happy that he’d stuck to third base as a position. For one, with Midorima pitching he’d get bored in the outfield with the low fly ball rate. And for another, well, even among the infield positions this is the absolute best for getting a good view of Midorima’s ass under the floodlights. He always drags his eyes away in time to snap up the balls that come his way, but even so. It’s hard not to think about touching Midorima right there, making him squirm, especially when he throws a particularly nasty curve or a sinker that falls almost into the dirt, way under the opposing batter’s swing.

“Are you just going to stare at me all game?” Midorima says, pulling on his hoodie in the dugout. He replaces his cap on his head, the black and red contrasting beautifully with the color of his hair, brim tilted forward so perfectly he almost looks like a mannequin.

“Why not?” says Aomine, leaning his cheek against Midorima’s right shoulder before folding his hands on top of the dugout railing. “I want to look at you.”

Midorima flushes pink, so predictable, so beautiful. He looks up; Aomine follows his gaze. A group of moths is fluttering around the nearest floodlight; Aomine squints into the brightness. At least it’s not warm enough for mosquitoes yet. A sharp breeze picks up, underscoring his thought, causing Aomine to set his shoulders and inch closer to Midorima.

“Momo, I’m cold.”

Midorima sighs softly. “Wear an undershirt next time.”

“They’re uncomfortable,” says Aomine.

“You get used to it.”

Midorima lets him move closely, and finally pulls him the last few centimeters, arm around his waist. It’s definitely a victory in Aomine’s book.

Their victory on the field is always all-but-assured when Midorima’s pitching, but it doesn’t feel any less sweet when the expected result happens. It’s maybe a bit sweeter, the smile Midorima lets himself keep for a few minutes after the last strike lands in the catcher’s glove (and oh, he loves to talk about ground balls and efficiency, but he would be such a good strikeout pitcher if he tried, and he always likes to end games with them—Aomine’s not going to bring it up right now, though it’s definitely worth thinking about right now and teasing Midorima later). He lets Aomine fondle him a little bit in the locker room; no one’s really paying any attention and Aomine’s hand goes from captain-ruffling-ace’s-hair to trail down his spine to reaching into Midorima’s pants and groping his ass through his compression shorts.

It’s a good enough stopgap, enough to tide them over until they’re back in their dorm room, tearing at each other’s clothes. They’re both too impatient to set things up so they end up doing it on the bottom bunk, cramped and their limbs going everywhere (not that Aomine’s complaining at all, but Midorima just won’t stop growing) but it’s still more than satisfying to give Midorima what he wants and tell him how well he’s doing, as a pitcher and a hitter and in general, with stuff like this. Midorima knows it already, but it’s not going to stop Aomine from reminding him, from murmuring it afterward, when they’re both clean and crammed together and Midorima’s in his arms.

He’s still naked; it’s kind of cold but Aomine had convinced him with handwaving arguments about body heat and a nudge in the right direction, reiterating that he loves seeing Midorima like this. Midorima shifts, most of the way to sleep, and Aomine leans over to kiss the tan line around his neck, faded from Midorima’s burn on the first day of outdoor practice. Midorima sighs, curling his hand around the edge of the covers. Aomine waits a little longer, tracing his fingers in patterns on Midorima’s back before he finally slides out of the bottom bunk (staying there seems like a great idea now, but it won’t in the morning and he’s not going to fuck up Midorima’s pitching arm right after a start just for this). Aomine gets one last look at Midorima, bare hand resting on the pillow, before he climbs up to the top bunk and lowers himself quietly to the mattress. He sends a text to Midorima that he knows he won’t get until the morning before setting his phone alarm, several peach emojis followed by twice as many green hearts. That should more than give Midorima the right idea.


End file.
